I Mean I Need to Love
by mazarin
Summary: John tries to get Sherlock's attention. He succeeds spectacularly well, just not quite in the way he'd intended. Slash.


"You know," John begins, idly drifting his fingers over Sherlock's hip where it's tucked against his own, "I wouldn't mind so much if you were a bit more…" _Aggressive? Forceful? Dominating? _ "…assertive. Um. A bit."

Sherlock turns a gimlet eye back over his shoulder to look at John. "Define the precise nature of 'a bit.'"

John flips on his back and rubs his hand over his face. "Sherlock, look, I don't know what exactly goes on in that brain of yours sometimes-"

"I assure you John, you are not alone." Sherlock's over and up on one elbow, smirking at John's obvious discomfiture.

"If you could tuck your blazing ego away for a minute-"

"Oh, blazing, is it?"

"Sherlock, could you please let me finish?"

Sherlock looks thoughtful for a moment, but then suddenly waves an elegant hand. "Yes, yes, assertive, I get it. Come on, John, up you get. Lestrade expects us in an hour." He jumps up and snatches his dressing gown from the back of the door and makes a beeline for the bathroom. John drops his head back against the pillows in defeat.

…..

John would be a fool to complain about his sex life, to be blunt. He's never had a partner as responsive, as generous, or as jaw-droppingly gorgeous as Sherlock. Anything and everything that John's thought of to try, Sherlock's been more than willing to go along with, and indeed, been an enthusiastic participant in. The thing is, Sherlock doesn't initiate sex, at least not like John had hoped he would. He's never been turned down; all John has to do is run a finger along Sherlock's shoulders where he sits hunched over the laptop for him to be instantly pliant. And it's not like Sherlock isn't passionate. It's just…well, feeling _wanted_ is a heady thing, especially if the one that's wanting is a man like Sherlock Holmes. He resolves to wait it out, and see how long it takes Sherlock to come to him.

Six days, three tight t-shirts, 2 sprawling wide-legged shirtless poses on the sofa, and one accidentally-on-purpose dropped towel, and John gives it up as a bad job. Sherlock remains resolutely unmoved, raising an eyebrow but otherwise going about his business without comment. Besides, giving in isn't all bad; he can always try out that new warming lubricant he picked up yesterday. He might spring that one once Himself gets home. Grinning, he turns back to the medical journal he'd been trying to get through before the memory of the taste of Sherlock's skin at the base of his spine distracted him.

…..

Life with Sherlock was ever full of surprises. A search for his favorite tea mug (the red RAMC logo starting to fade) has devolved into a safari amongst the labware, trying to avoid the caustics and holding his breath against inhaling the poisons. He finally locates the mug in the back of a bottom cabinet. When he pulls it out into the light, he can only groan in frustration. It's full of soil and sprouting some kind of small brown mushroom. Irritation blooms behind his eyes and without really thinking about the ramifications of it, he sends a picture of the cup with a text.

_This is my cup.-JW_

He also sends a self portrait of his stormy, unhappy expression.

_This is my face after finding my cup.-JW_

The reply comes in almost immediately.

_Galerina autumnalis. Can be grown hidden in dark cabinet. Good to know. –SH_

_FOG GOD'S SAKE DO NOT EAT.-SH_

An hour or so later, just as John's settling in with a bit of evening telly and tea in Sherlock's mug, the door bangs open so hard it bounces off of the door stop and begins to swing back. Sherlock stands in the doorway, a dark silhouette against the light in the hall. John begins to rise from his chair at the unexpected crash, relaxing when he sees who it is.

Sherlock's eyes seem to glow in the half-light, and before John can get a word out, he's stalked across the room to lean forward and drop his hands on the arms of John's chair.

"John."

One small word is all it takes for his stomach to tighten and he drops back into the cushions, pinned by the weight of Sherlock's hungry gaze. The gleam in his eye is positively predatory. _Well_, John thinks, as Sherlock straightens up and drops his coat in a puddle behind him_, I did ask for it, didn't I?_

Sherlock doesn't even give John a chance to blink before he clambers into his lap, straddling his thighs. His hot, hungry mouth slots over Johns insistently, pushing his tongue between John's lips with abandon, grinding his hips down.

"I couldn't stop thinking about you," he grits out. "Ruined a perfectly progressing experiment. The way you taste, the feel of your mouth on me, oh God…" Sherlock slides two fingers into John's mouth, and John follows along, sucking lightly, running his tongue along the tips. He swallows Sherlock's fingers down as far as they'll go, and Sherlock gasps, his eyelids drooping and his mouth slack. John slides his hands up Sherlock's thighs, wrapping his fingers around his narrow hips and using his thumbs to stroke Sherlock's erection through his trousers. The groan that rips from his throat is gratifying, and John is just reaching for Sherlock's belt when Sherlock suddenly scoots backwards, dropping onto his knees on the floor. He scrabbles for Johns fly and tugs insistently.

John's brain is spinning with arousal and a bit of confusion, but he's not stupid enough to hit pause and start asking ridiculous questions, not matter how out of the blue this seems. He lifts his hips a bit and helps Sherlock drag down his jeans and shorts. As soon as they hit his ankles, Sherlock surges up for a messy, wet kiss. John tries to reach for the buttons at the collar of Sherlock's wine-colored silk shirt when Sherlock abruptly breaks the kiss and pulls back.

"Oh, no, no time for that." He leans forward between John's knees, licking his kiss roughened bottom lip. John sucks in a breath, eyes wide. Sherlock's eyes never leave John's as he bends low and takes John's cock between his lips, swirling his tongue around the head. The intense look in his eyes makes John's heart stutter, and when Sherlock runs a knuckle behind his balls, John grips the arms of the chair and groans. Sherlock, still with his eyes on John's face, reaches up a hand and shoves his fingers back in John's mouth. He hums, sucking desperately, trying to convey his own desire in the only action he's apparently being allowed. John can feel his climax building, tight heat coiled low, and his eyes close of their own volition. Fingers claw at Sherlock's hair, wrapping in the dark curls, and pushes so deep he can feel Sherlock's nose nudging his groin. As he falls over the edge with his lover's name on his lips, he feels Sherlock pull off and drags his eyes open in time to see his come paint Sherlock's face and hair, dripping off of his dark eyelashes and onto his collar. Sherlock sits back on his heels, eyes closed, breath coming in pants. He snakes his tongue from the corner of his mouth and tastes a spot of John's release, breaking into a wide, guileless, happy grin.

…

"So what brought that on?" John asks later, tucked up warm in their bed.

Sherlock looks up from where he'd been studying the patterns of John's fingerprints. "Does it have to be anything?"

"Considering what I'd done to get your attention over the last week, sure. I'd like to be able to try it again, some time."

"It was your text, actually."

"My _text_ ? Are you joking?"

"You were so irritated with me; all I could think was how I could make it up to you. My imagination took over from there."

"So…" John pauses for a moment, then continues in a small voice. "Nothing I did really attracted you, did it? You were just trying to smooth things over. In your own way."

Sherlock cracks a smile. "That's not true."

"Well, then, why didn't you do anything, for God's sake?" Sherlock smiles wider. "What? What are you laughing at?"

"If, by keeping myself from pouncing on you I am treated to the sight of tight shirts and you walking bare-arsed from the shower every once in a while, I'd be happy. Besides, I was wondering how long it would take you to crack."

John picks up a pillow and swats him with it. "You utter wanker!"

"And you love it."

"God help me, I do."


End file.
